Your Victory, Your Sting
by Armidion
Summary: A tribute to a friend with the help of John Sheppard and Elizabeth Weir.


Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate: Atlantis or Stargate SG-1 or anything associated with it.

Elizabeth sunk deeper into her chair and continued her lazy evaluation of the starry skies out the commissary window. With the lights of Atlantis dimmed for what she prayed was a peaceful slumber for her Pegasus-bound charges, the stars were bright, easily discernable even through the gentle ripple of ingeniously designed glass. From one star to the next her gaze would wonder, and she would find herself picking shapes out of the twinkling masses. A horse there, a flower there, one that even reminded her of the complexity of the Daedalus. The entire process was beautifully relaxing seeing as her mind saw fit to carry out all the figuring of its own, imaginative accord. It lulled her into thoughtlessness, and she was glad of that.

Because, truth be told, she had never needed more of a distraction. She thought that in the thick of all the deaths, the missions, the battles, regular clashes with the IOA, and Rodney's insistence to get into trouble she would have been more, well, _hardened_, for lack of a less unappealing word. These troublesome events and her strong reaction to them had started to define Atlantis's ever-growing history. But now, in the quiet of the night, the letter, delivered to her personally by Jack O'Neill, still clutched tight in her hand, made her want to weep, to cry, and to let all of the well-built walls of strength she had worked so hard to create just crumble at her feet, the dust of the rubble coating her tear-stroked face.

Her mother. Her dear sweet mother. She had lost. She was strong, stronger than Elizabeth thought she could have ever managed to be. If her mother were standing beside her in this challenging environment, she would have taken the hits like they were the slight stinging of a needle, the pinch of a mosquito. But she had lost the battle with cancer. And, two days ago, she had succumbed to the pull of death. Elizabeth had been informed that the doctors were hard pressed not to feel relieved that the long, drawn out process was over, that the woman now rested in peace. But Elizabeth, like any grieving person, begged God to give her back, to the let the world be set to right. She tried to be strong at first, to tell herself that she had gained a new perspective on life, but in the end, her mother was still gone, and she was still left without anyone else to hold onto back on Earth. And the numbing pain that set in with the realization was overwhelming. She felt so lost, like she wasn't anchored to anything anymore, like her soul would just slip from its fleshy confines at any moment. She needed grounding. She needed something that would tell that everything was solid.

And so she found herself her, watching the stars above, and feeling the hum of Atlantis around her. Sure, it was comforting. Sure, it seemed to help at least quiet the rush of blood in her ears. But she still felt gone, numb, elsewhere. It would take time. It always took time for the pain of loss to abate. In this moment, though, despite what she had been telling herself to remember when then time to grieve came around the corner, Elizabeth could not help but to feel that it would never ebb. She would always be carrying this thick, heavy sadness on her shoulders. And with the burden of her command, she wasn't sure she could hold herself together when the time came to get up and to go about and do her duty like every other day.

The mere thought was mind-numbingly painful in and of itself.

"Elizabeth?"

She jumped at the sound of her name, the lulling haze of her musings shattered by the presence and voice of another. She turned slightly in her seat to see John Sheppard walking slowly towards, a cup of something hot and steaming cradled in his hands. Normally, at the sight of his dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and an old, white t-shirt, accompanied by unbelievably messy bed hair, she would have laughed, smiled and beckoned him to sit with her for a bit while they talked, as they often did when neither of them could find sleep. With her mind still hovering in a mass of pain and longing, Elizabeth simply acknowledged the tousled man with a look and turned back towards the window, fighting back a sudden surge of the need to let her emotion splash overboard.

Without even meaning to, she had found what would ground her, and she immediately regretted ever wanting it.

"Elizabeth?"

John repeated her name, this time from only a foot or so behind her, and his closeness, his presence, his smell, the shuffle of his clothing, brought her crashing back down to the solid world.

And she burst into tears.

They streamed down her face in quivering rivulets, dripping off the edge of her chin and into her lap. She tried to apologize to John, poor John, but the only thing that seemed to be willing to come through was a sort of senseless babble. She turned her face away from him when he came around her front. She heard the light tap of what she assumed was hid drink being put aside on a table nearby.

Elizabeth sobbed harder. Every tap, every step, every rustle made the tears come thicker and faster. And when John Sheppard, who she would have expected to have run and hid by now, placed a hand on each of her shoulder and pulled her into a tight embrace, all of the breath left her longs, and she felt as if she was destined to weep for all of eternity. And despite her almost-wish that he would let her go, shame her for being week, call her out on setting a poor example, anything to let her concentrate on anything but the raw pain she was feeling now, he kept her in his arms, holding fast, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, the other smoothing out her hair.

After several, long minutes, the chocking sobs abated, leaving only sniffling and wet, curving paths on her cheeks. Elizabeth, feeling at least composed enough to offer an apology for her behavior, pulled back to look into John's eyes. The hazel-coated compassion made her mind consider more fitful tears. To her great relied, for speaking would have been taxing under the warmth of his gaze, he spoke first.

"What is it, Elizabeth?" John asked. "Did something happen?"

She only nodded. Before he could ask what, she pulled her arm from around his waist and gave him the letter. With one arm still supporting her, he unfolded the letter and took in the short, seemingly heartless explanation of Elizabeth's mother's death with a few sweeps of his eyes. Once finished, he sat the letter back on the table and pulled Elizabeth back into his full embrace, still looking her in the eyes.

"You know, Elizabeth," John began in a hushed, soothing tone. "When my mother died, long ago, I was very young. I cried for ages. It seemed like all I did for days was cry in my room."

John paused for a moment before rubbing gently at the paths of Elizabeth's tears with his thumb. He leaned closer before continuing.

"One day - I don't even remember how long had been since she had died - my father came into my room and took me away in the car. We drove for a while before stopping out in the middle of the country. It was so dark…you could see every star in the sky. Even before my father pretty much stopped talking, he, uh…well he didn't say much. He just pointed up at the sky and said 'God's got your mother, son. She's right up there.' . We stayed for a while. Then we drove back…not another word between us for the rest of the night."

John paused again, this time appearing just to drink in her expression, gaze flickering between her eyes, watching them as they watched him. He sighed and pulled her tighter against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"And I never stopped believing it," John whispered. "I first wanted to fly to be up there with her and, well…it's gotten me here, hasn't it? Despite all this science and ascension stuff and all the aliens and what not, I still believe it. I do because I can. If I can feel it there, if _you _can feel it there, then who gives a crap about what anyone else thinks?"

Elizabeth nodded into his shoulder, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks at the sheer weight of the moment and the glimpse into John Sheppard's pain-ridden past. She cried for him. She cried for her. She cried for both of their mothers.

"Do you think…?" Elizabeth began. Her voice caught on a quite sob.

"Yes," John replied, voice strong. "Both of them. Right now, in the sky. In heaven, if you want to call it something. She's there. She's proud of you."

And suddenly, Elizabeth Weir felt the violent urge to cry gone, and the weighty need to grieve not quite so weighty anymore. There would be those days. Those days when she felt it again and her soft strength would yet again begin to crack. But right now, cradled in the arms of a kindred spirit, Elizabeth felt piece. Said kindred spirit, the beautifully broken John Sheppard, knew it well.

"Thanks, God," Elizabeth whispered.

And despite the seeming immaturity about it, what many would call naïveté, curse at, spit at, and such, both John and Elizabeth felt it to be enough. Enough for the tragic death of Elizabeth's mother, enough for both of their admissions, even enough for the moment itself.

"Yeah," John whispered in turn. "Thanks."

And, at least for now, all was set right.

_When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: "Death is swallowed up in victory. O death where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?"_

_1 Corinthians 15: 54-58 _

_For Bruce Dillon. God has you. You're right up there._

Love,

Rainbow Stain


End file.
